The dash and go of the party of great swarthy, black-haired fellows, in their blue jerseys and great boots, was completely evaporated as they reached the church, Tom Jennen being the only one who spoke, after screwing himself up. "Stand 'em down here, lads," he said; and the baskets, with their beautiful iridescent freight of mackerel, were placed in the porch, the men being glad to get rid of their loads; and their next idea was to hurry away, but they only huddled together in a group, feeling very uncomfortable, and Tom Jennen was left standing quite alone. "I arn't afeard," he said to himself; but he felt very uncomfortable all the same. "He'll whack me with big words, that's what he'll do, but they'll all run off me like the sea-water off a shag's back. I arn't feard o' he, no more'n I am o' Amos Pengelly;" and, glancing back at his mates, he gave a sharp rap on the church door with a penny piece that he dragged out of his right-hand pocket, just as if it had been a counter, and he was going to call for the ale he meant to win. There was a bit of a tremor ran through the group of brave-hearted, stalwart fishermen at this, just as if they had had an electric shock; and the men who would risk their lives in the fiercest storms felt the desire to run off stronger than ever, like a pack of mischievous boys; but not one stirred. The door was opened by Miss Pavey, who was hot and flushed, and who had a great sheaf of oats in one hand and a big pair of scissors in the other, while the opening door gave the fishermen a view of the interior of the little church, bright with flowers in pot and bunch, while sheaves of corn, wreaths of evergreens, and artistically-piled-up masses of fruits and vegetables produced an effect very different to that imagined by the rough, seafaring men, who took a step forward to stare at the unusual sight. Miss Pavey dropped her big scissors, which hung from her waist by a stout white cotton cord, something like a friar's girdle; and as her eyes fell from the rough fishermen to the great baskets of fish, she uttered the one word,-- "My!" "Here, I want parson, miss," growled Tom Jennen, setting his teeth, and screwing his mahogany-brown face into a state of rigid determination. "Hallo, my lads, what have you got here?" cried a cheery voice, as Geoffrey Trethick strode up. "Fish! Can't yer see?" growled Tom Jennen, defiantly. "Here--here are the fishermen, Mr Lee," faltered Miss Pavey; and, looking flushed with exertion, and bearing a great golden orange pumpkin in his arms, the Reverend Edward Lee came to the door, laid the pumpkin where it was to form the base of a pile of vegetables, and then, with his glasses glimmering and shining, he stood framed in the Gothic doorway, with Miss Pavey and Geoffrey on either side, both looking puzzled, Tom Jennen and the fish in the porch, and the group of swarthy, blue-jerseyed fishers grouped behind.